Libby
Damn, I think, glancing at the door as I settle onto the sofa. I hope he remembers to pick me up a root beer. I’m not about to be the one to call Patrick and remind him, especially when he’s probably already halfway back by now. My boyfriend is going out of his way to grab us an evening junk food fix, and as strong as the soda craving is, I remind myself how lucky I am he’s doing this at all.
Sometimes it still surprises even me that I, Libby Rain, managed to snag such an attentive boyfriend. How many other 22-year olds can say their significant others are willing to go on a snack run just for them? Not to mention that Patrick’s handsome, successful, kind, and basically everything I could have ever asked for. All that, of course, is secondary to the biggest draw of them all, though: Patrick is a man of God. He takes our faith seriously.
I glance over at the coffee table, where our Bible study workbooks are lying in a haphazard heap. We got back about half an hour ago, and I know I should be reviewing the lessons Pastor Ed taught us today, but there will be time for that later because right now, I have more important things to do.
With that in mind, I return my gaze to my boyfriend’s laptop on the table, my fingers flying over the keyboard as I type in his password. I found it on a sticky note in his wallet, and although it’s probably not good form to snoop, this will be worth it. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
Quickly, I navigate to his hard drive, half-picturing myself as a badass movie hacker. The mission? To track down baby pictures of Patrick that I can use in a birthday collage. It’ll be so awesome because I want to put together a really cute spread of him that we can view at his birthday party. All of our church friends will ooh and ah when they see his chubby cheeks and curly locks. It’s definitely a gift from the heart, and I’m sure God will forgive the intrusion of privacy.
Jackpot! Patrick’s family photo album is clearly marked, and full to the brim with exactly the kind of wholesome snaps I would expect from a guy like Patrick Arrington. Family trips to Niagara Falls, first Christmases, and play dates are all documented, and Patrick is in almost all of them. Unable to stop my smile, I click on one of them: his elementary school graduation. Even as a little kid, he had the same black hair and blue eyes, not to mention the same distant, aloof handsomeness. Standing to either side of him are his beaming parents, as well as his older brother, Frisco. Wow, Frisco was already a looker. While Patrick was only a boy in this photo, his older brother must have been in his twenties already, with a dark, brooding expression and a build that rivals an Olympic athlete.
But I’m not here to gawk at Patrick’s brother, I’m here to grab pictures of Patrick himself. As a result, I email the photo to myself and resume my search, glancing every so often at the door to make sure my boyfriend isn’t about to walk in. Ah ha! Here’s one from his first day of kindergarten, his fifth grade swim tournament, and one of his school science fairs. One by one, I copy them all before reaching the last in the series, which is more recent. It’s a picture from my twenty-first birthday dinner, which was a surprise event with both our families in attendance. Patrick has his arm around me in the booth, and I can’t help but take a minute to assess my appearance: curly brown hair that stays unkempt no matter how much I try to straighten it. Brown eyes. Curvy, with a big goofy grin and stars in my eyes. Patrick is facing forward, a faraway expression on his face. On the other side of the booth, his parents are talking animatedly with his brother.
Oh, there he is again. Frisco’s ten years older than Patrick, and I’ve never really been able to get a read on him. The age difference between us is part of it, but it’s also something else and I can’t put my finger on it. There’s a dominance in the way he carries himself that Patrick doesn’t have.
The sound of my phone ringing pulls my attention away from the photo album, and when I check it, I see that it’s Dakota calling. She probably just got home from her shift at the Blue Bean, the coffee shop that she owns. I can’t not answer, and not just because she’s my boss; Dakota Straithmore also happens to be my best friend. Not even the allure of going through Patrick’s baby pictures is enough to get me to ignore the call. Smiling, I answer the phone. “Hey, girl.”
“Libby, you’re alive!” she exclaims, laughing. “I called you a couple times already.”
Raising my eyebrows, I check and see that she’s right. “Sorry,” I reply. “I had my phone turned off. Patrick and I had Bible study.”
“Yeah?” she sounds incredulous. “How often do you guys do that, anyway?”
“Twice a week,” I reply immediately. “Wednesdays and Sundays.”
“Sounds like a lot to deal with after a long workday.”
“It’s worth it to get into Heaven,” I quip, and she chuckles. “Besides, quality time with the beau doesn’t hurt either. Can you believe he just went right back out to go get us food? I swear, Dakota, I’m spoiled. If Jack doesn’t treat you like a princess then you’d better high-tail it out of there.” My comment is in jest, of course. Dakota and Jack are madly in love, and they practically emanate passion. That doesn’t mean I can’t still shoot the shit.
“As a matter of fact, he’s giving me the evening off,” Dakota reminds me airily. “He took the kids out for ice cream so I could take a hot bath. This is the only chance I’ll get to gossip tonight, so you’d better make it worth it, Libby.”
“I’m making a collage, if you must know,” I reply in a put-upon voice. “Patrick’s birthday is coming up, and I want to do something special for him.”
“Sounds like things are going well, then,” Dakota giggles.
“Damn right, they are,” I reply with confidence. “I’m lucky. He’s a great guy, even if he can be hard to understand sometimes.”
“Every guy can be hard to understand,” Dakota says with good-natured exasperation.
I laugh. “And they call us the mysterious ones!”
“Libby - and I’m saying this as a friend - there’s nothing mysterious about you.”
I can’t help but laugh. She has a point. My first interaction with Dakota was when I stood up for her against the bitchy Cindy McAllister during our freshman year of high school, and we’ve been fast friends ever since. I’m not the kind of person to mince words, and I’m not afraid to get pissed off either, then or now. Pastor Ed says anger and revenge go against God’s will, but I don’t see anything wrong with standing up for myself. If someone treats me badly, why shouldn’t I do the same to them?
My eyes drift back to the wall clock. “Listen,” I say, “I have to wrap this up. Patrick’s going to be back any minute, and I can’t have him seeing me on his computer. Can I call you later?”
“Sure,” Dakota replies. “Good luck!”
I end the call and close Patrick’s family photo album. I’ve got a decent number of pictures by now, but there are other albums on his computer: College, Work Stuff, Vacation Moments…
And at the bottom is one labeled with a single phrase: At the Club.
Interesting. I never thought of Patrick as much of a nightclub person, but maybe he had a party phase before we met. Strange that he never told me about it, though. Biting my lip, I steal another glance at the time. I really shouldn’t dawdle - it’s bad enough that I’m looking through his stuff already - but a spark of curiosity has already set in.
Screw it, I think. A quick peek never hurt anyone, and besides, there might be more collage material in there. I open the folder, expecting blurry cell phone pictures of late night debauchery from Patrick’s college days: bright lights, crowded dance floors, maybe a giant champagne bottle or two. What I see instead makes my heart stop in my chest.
The first thought that goes through my mind is, That’s not Patrick. It can’t be.
But it is, and no amount of bleach in the world can make me unsee what I’m seeing now. It does look like a club, but instead of hoodie-dressed college kids, everyone in the photo is wearing fetish gear. The whole place is a sea of corsets, whips, chains, and latex. Some of the figures are relatively covered up, but not my boyfriend. Patrick’s dressed in black latex skin-tight pants, with no shirt. He’s totally unrecognizable as the godly man I’ve been dating, especially given the hungry look of pleasure twisting his lips.
Even more, there’s a similarly-dressed woman with him, wearing stilettos and holding a riding crop. She’s jamming something into his ass in one photo, his expression one of agonizing pain as his hands clench on themselves. In another, he’s licking her tall leather boots and honestly, those things don’t look too clean. In a third, she’s sitting on his face, spread-eagled and covering his airway with her splayed pussy as his face turns purple, gasping frantically for oxygen. I stare in horror, but it’s like watching an accident in slow motion. I can’t look away even as bile rises in my throat.
It’s as I’m staring at this last photo, trying to comprehend what I’m seeing, that another realization hits me. I know the girl he’s with. Holy shit, is that Raina Peterson?
Zooming in reveals that it is. I haven’t seen her since high school, back when she was the blonde knockout who was prom queen junior year. She always seemed so normal back then, even though we never hung out much. Now though, she’s almost unrecognizable: her long hair is now black to match the black lipstick she’s wearing, and she has what looks like a whole palette’s worth of purple eyeshadow on her sultry eyelids. It’s her, though, because I recognize her features. There’s no doubt about it.
I don’t even have time to wonder who took the pictures; I’m already on the verge of slamming the laptop shut. Total shock runs through my mind, a terrible queasy feeling bubbling up in the pit my stomach. Maybe this was before he met me, I tell myself. Maybe he’s changed. But even as I pull up the properties menu, that idea rings hollow. The photos looked like they could have been taken days ago, and sure enough, I see that they’re dated from earlier this month. There’s no denying the fact that these photos are current, and it’s not long before my dismay gives way first to confusion, and then to anger.
Patrick Arrington is cheating on me, with a girl from my high school, no less, doing the kinkiest, most depraved things I have ever witnessed. I never knew he was into this kind of stuff. He made me think he was respectable. He always said the Bible came before everything else. And yet, here he is, being dominated in some kind of underground sex club by one of our former classmates.
Bile rises up again in my throat, and I swallow hard against the sour taste to make it go away. Then, I stare at the pictures for another long moment, thoughts of revenge already flooding my head. Pastor Ed’s words about turning the other cheek briefly echo in my mind, but I shove them away. The anger and heartbreak are overwhelming. Not letting myself think, I copy the contents of the entire folder before attaching them to an email. I have the addresses of everyone in our Bible study group. If Patrick thinks he can mess around behind my back like this, he’s got another think coming!
I hesitate for just a moment, my finger hovering over the send button, and wonder if I’m being rash. But then my mind drifts back to the sight of Raina grinding her pussy onto my boyfriend’s face as his eyes go bloodshot from lack of oxygen, and that seals the deal. Gritting my teeth, I hit send before slamming the laptop closed and shoving it away like it might catch fire.
I realize that I’m breathing hard, sweat beading on my forehead from the adrenaline rush. There’s a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach at the thought that I just exposed my boyfriend’s fetish to our entire study group, but once again, I shove it away. Now everyone will witness his depravity, and Patrick will see what happens when someone wrongs the woman that is Libby Rain.